


What Friends Do

by chellefic



Category: Adventures of Brisco County Jr.
Genre: Episode Tag, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chellefic/pseuds/chellefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post "Pirates," Brisco and Socrates share a hotel room. Hey, it's a perfectly good cliche.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Friends Do

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kageygirl.

"That was a brave thing you did," Brisco says, leaning back against the wall behind the bed and crossing his feet at the ankle. "Going to meet with Blackbeard LaCutte without the ransom."

Socrates looks away, because Brisco and bed are two words he doesn't need to put together, ever. "That's what friends do. It's called loyalty."

"I'm familiar with the concept. I was just wondering if you do that for all your friends."

Only the handsome ones. "Most of my friends don't make it a habit to get captured by pirates."

"No, I imagine they don't." There's warmth in Brisco's tone and Socrates' gaze is drawn back to him.

He wants to know why these things never happen in cities or big towns with more than one hotel, with more than a handful of rooms. Heroism wasn't supposed to be rewarded with shared rooms with a single bed. There are enough opportunities for embarrassment in a day without this.

Yet this is what it always comes back to, him, Brisco, and friendly words that aren't flirtation. "We should get some sleep." He isn't anxious to get into the bed, but at least that way he'll have a reason to turn away, to put his back to Brisco.

"Good idea." Leaning forward, Brisco strips off his boots, dropping them to the floor. Then he stands and undoes his gun belt.

Swallowing, Socrates looks away. He removes his own shirt and pants, folding them neatly and placing them on the chair before going around to the far side of the bed. Taking off his glasses, he folds them, placing on the bedside stand. Pulling the covers free, he settles beneath them, pleased that he got all that done without once looking at his roommate.

He hears Brisco open the gun and check the chamber before placing it within reach, and he feels the bed shift as Brisco gets into it, feels the tug on the covers when Brisco lies down.

"Good-night, Soc."

"'night, Brisco."

Brisco douses the light and darkness removes the temptation to look. But not the sounds. He can hear Brisco breathe, slow deep breaths, in and out, and unconsciously shifts his own breathing to match it.

He does not think about the buttons running down the center of Brisco's torso, doesn't think about undoing them and sliding his hand into the opening. He doesn't think about the hair on Brisco's chest, and he definitely doesn't think about anything lower, between Brisco's legs.

"Soc."

Startled, he tries to push up his glasses but they aren't there. "Yeah?"

"You did good today." He feels Brisco roll onto his side, and then Brisco's hand is on his shoulder, squeezing. "Really good."

"I got captured."

"So did I."

"You escaped."

"So did you."

"I was rescued. There's a difference."

Brisco squeezes again. "Not a big one."

Socrates knows that isn't true, but with Brisco so close he can feel the warmth radiating from his body, he wants to believe it.

"I just thought you should know that." Brisco removes his hand, but he doesn't just take it away. He slides it all the way down to Socrates' waist first, and Socrates stops breathing.

He swallows, then clears his throat. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Brisco is so close that Socrates can feel warm air on the back of his neck when Brisco speaks.

He wants to turn over, but this isn't life or death, and Socrates' courage tends to shrink in proportion with the stakes.

"Good night." The words are accompanied by another touch, a pat on his hip.

The bed shifts as Brisco rolls onto his back. Socrates stares at the window, where a hint of moonlight is coming in through the curtains. He doesn't know the rules to this game; doesn't know how it's played. Doesn’t even know if it is a game. At least with poker he could look up the rules.

He rolls over before he can talk himself out of it.

"Hey Soc," Brisco says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He returns his hand to Socrates' hip, and Socrates closes his eyes as his cock goes from hard to hardest, skipping over harder entirely.

"I…" He doesn't know what to say and his hand is on Brisco's belly, with only one layer of cotton keeping his hand from Brisco's skin; Socrates has no idea how it got there.

"I got it covered," Brisco says and Socrates is sure he does.

Just once he wants to be the one who has it covered. He slides his hand lower, until he bumps into Brisco's penis.

Brisco's erect penis.

He can do this. He faced down a pirate. And got thrown into a cell, but it's the facing that counts. Pulling in a breath, he moves his hand again until his palm is resting on Brisco's erection.

Brisco shifts, lifting his hips just enough to be encouraging. Socrates squeezes. Part of him can't believe this is happening, that he just squeezed Brisco's penis.

Then Brisco starts to undo the buttons on Socrates' underwear, not all of them, only the one's over his erection.

He fumbles with Brisco's buttons, undoing more than necessary. He's almost ready to touch when Brisco's hand closes around him. Socrates groans and presses his forehead against the side of Brisco's shoulder.

"That's it," Brisco whispers.

Socrates shudders. There's a hand on him, stroking him, pleasuring him, Brisco's hand.

He doesn't want it to be one-sided, to be just Brisco's hand. Finding the concentration from somewhere, he slides his hand under Brisco's clothes.

Brisco's cock is firm in his hand, warm, the skin surprisingly soft.

He tries to stroke steadily, to keep up a rhythm. He wants to be good at this, but Brisco's hand distracts him. Socrates hasn't felt a hand other than his own in a long time, and Brisco knows what he's doing.

Brisco always knows what he's doing, even when he doesn't.

His touch is making Socrates' body come alive, making it dance. He groans again, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn't want it to end too soon, but he's so close. "Wait, wait," he pants. They need a towel, something, otherwise there's going to be a stain on the side of Brisco's underwear.

But Brisco doesn't wait and Socrates comes in long soul-shaking spurts.

He's still shaking when Brisco's hand covers his. "I got it," he says, lifting his hand and shaking Brisco's off.

Then he sets to work. He's certain he can do this now that Brisco isn't distracting him. Shifting closer, he presses his body into Brisco's side, giving himself a better angle. He rubs the head of Brisco's cock with his thumb at the top of the next stroke, and Brisco groans.

He can absolutely do this.

Brisco lifts his hips and Socrates catches the rhythm. When Brisco groans, Socrates smiles, and when Brisco comes, Socrates keeps touching him, slowing his stroke, easing him through it, because that's what friends do.

But then it's over and Socrates doesn't know what to do. Should he get a towel, because they're pretty messy? Should he button Brisco back up? Button himself? He's certain the answer to the last question is yes so he starts to turn over.

Brisco places a hand on his hip, stopping him. "Sleep," he says with a squeeze.

That's something he knows how to do, so he closes his eyes.

Brisco leaves his hand where it is.


End file.
